your body, a borrowed thing
by nechoco kitty
Summary: a part of you is still trapped there: in that field, in that room, in your own head. "you have a choice, lydia. you can either deal with it now—here, with me—or you can wait until you're alone and cornered." Post-S2, Lydia-centric. Scott/Lydia.
1. your body, a borrowed thing

**Inspired by even love sometimes feels like treason by elvesarebad on tumblr.**

the lack of capitalization is a stylistic choice. a lot of things here are stylistic choices.

this takes place post-s2 finale and is more or less canon-compliant

**warning:**  
this work openly explores lydia's ptsd after peter's attack and forced piggy back ride (haunting, threatening, manipulation, coercion, etc.), as well as peter just being a general creep and invading lydia's personal space both in the past and the current time-line of the fic.

please keep in mind that in order to keep it all in character, the language used to describe peter and lydia's interactions with him is reminiscent to sexual violence.

**please mind the warning.** it was emotionally exhausting for me to write, and potentially triggering for other individuals.

posted originally on AO3 on 08/27/12 and the formatting messed up on transfer.

title from warsan shire.

.

.

* * *

.

.

every night you still wake, body shaking uncontrollably and lungs gasping for air.

you're cold all over and you can feel him—you can still feel him on you; his long claws, his terrible teeth.

his eyes are as red as your blood on his mouth.

.

.

every night you wake and it's still a surprise that he's not lying next to you.

burned man. dead man.

he tasted like earth and ashes. like death.

every night you wake, half-expecting to see his smug smirk. the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he threatened to destroy your family, your friends, if you didn't do as he said.

_all you have to do_, he says as he touches you. claws carressing your cheek. your neck. his lips right against your ear. hot breath against your flesh and you squeeze your eyes shut and you shudder and you pull yourself in close but you can't pull away can't get away because he's not really real, is he? he's not really real he's just in your head just in your head and he isn't real he's just a voice just a figment and he can't touch you but you can feel him you can smell him you can—

every night you wake, half-expecting for it to feel real, this time, that he was actually gone. that he wasn't still inside that _beautiful, brilliant_ mind of yours, bidding his time.

_all you have to do is every single thing that i ask_ and this is the part where he pierces your skin with his claws and he smiles and he smiles and your mouth opens in a scream that never leaves your throat.

every night you wake and you still don't feel safe.

.

.

you know better than to put any weight on fairy tales.

you love him and he loves you back and it should be as simple as that, but it isn't. it just isn't and neither of you knew what to do beyond stringing each other along for a week or two before realizing that love—whatever that meant—wasn't enough anymore.

it hadn't been for a while; not love, not sex—none of that could hold the two of you together for long.

as for your relationship... the growing apart had happened before lizard monsters and werewolves and ghosts that haunted the back of your head. this was being smashed against the pavement until your pieces could barely make a whole, let alone fit with someone else.

not neatly. not in a way that wouldn't hurt.

it already hurt so much just to _be_.

love doesn't make it any better, doesn't make it hurt any less when you are ragged and jagged on the inside. you don't expect anyone else to hold you back together. that isn't the way things work for people like you.

the break up is mutual and happens, out of all places, in the middle of macy's by the fragrance department.

"well, this is kind of awkward..." jackson says and he shuffles his feet. his grin is sheepish-an expression you haven't seen on his face in what feels like years. he was never this vulnerable around you until recently.

"just a bit." you smile back, brighter than you feel on the inside, and offer jackson your hand for a perfunctory shake.

he wraps you in his arms tightly instead and you feel something in your chest tighten—and then loosen—when you breathe out.

.

.

you keep his key on a chain around your neck and he doesn't ask for it back.

you're not sure why on either count and you don't question it; you just slip it under your blouse and take comfort in the feel of the skin-warmed metal against your breasts.

.

.

you can feel him behind you in the parking lot, can feel his stare on your back. can feel his eyes as they bore into you. his smugness as he makes his way toward you.

you feel him all the time, really, in dreams and drowsy moments and more-awake-than-anything moments. it's sort of a mind fuck because he's even less real (and yet more real) than he used to be, but he's still there. he's always there and there are times you feel your back stiffening and your skin crawling, but you whip your head around and nothing's there.

no reason to expect anything different this time. no reason at all.

he's back from the dead so why the hell would he be stalking a macy's parking lot anyway?

so you decide not to bother this time. not to turn around. not to look. not to let your heart beat wildly in your chest. not to let your hands tremble.

so you fumble with your keys instead, desperate to open the door. turn the ignition and drive off, drive away.

where would you go? where _do_ you go when nowhere's safe?

there's the sound of shoes against asphalt and you can't stop it you try to stop it but you can't stop it. can't stop the dread pooling at the pit of your stomach or the way your head turns to check over your shoulder—_just in case_, you say, _it's probably nothing but just in case—_or how your hands turn numb when you see him here, with you, in this dimly lit parking lot. he's smiling at you, hair slicked back and with facial hair that he never had in your nightmares. hallucinations. whatever.

his eyes are blue and not red and he's smiling, all pleased as can be, all cat and canary, and your hands are trembling and your heart's thudding in your chest as you step back and again and again until your back hits a wall and he matches your steps with his long strides and he's smiling as you squeeze your eyes shut as you gasp for air that won't reach your lungs.

there's a jingling sound as the keys fall from your hands, but you don't hear it fall to the ground. you don't hear it fall to the ground and this cannot be happening why is this happening?!

he never did promise to leave you alone—did he?

"i think you dropped this." his voice curls around your ears and settles there. makes itself a nest in your ear drum where it echoes... echoes... echoes...

you'll hear his voice in your head for hours or maybe days. _i think you dropped this, i think you... you... you... think... think you need you... lydia i need you..._

you don't offer him your hand so he takes it from you, unclasps your fists and wraps your fingers around your car keys. you can feel your skin crawl. can feel how it wants to shrivel up and die, would _rather_ shrivel up and die than be touched by him like how he's touching you and your hand is in his hand and he tightens his grip and the keys are digging into your hand and it's not painful but it isn't pleasant either and you keep your eyes closed and start counting backwards from thirty thousand by threes like maybe by the time you reach zero he'll be gone. for good this time.

instead he says, "you broke up with jackson?" and it's not really a question because you realize, now, that he's been watching you—

how long has he been watching you? how long and when and where and have you been right all along? were you right all those times you felt that chill down your spine? has he been watching you all those moments you've fooled yourself that you were (almost) safe?

—and you're too busy choking back a strangled sound to speak so you nod in answer and he chuckles—_he chuckles—_and says

"well, so much for young love." and you wonder how he could make even the word _love_ sound so sinister in his mouth. how he could make something that felt so _good_ sound so wrong. "i'll see you around."

you want to tell him not to bother. want to tell him that you'd set him on fire if he ever touched you again, that you'd dig his new grave yourself, with your own two hands, that you'd scoop the dark earth and feel its grit in your palms, dig the whole six feet and bury him and make sure this time-make sure that this grave would be his last and final—

—there would be dirt under your fingernails for years to come and you'd taste like earth and ashes and isn't that funny? how he'll never truly leave you alone. dead or alive there's always a piece of him inside of you, now that... now that—

but you shake your head instead and keep counting, keep counting like the numbers will save you, like the numbers will protect you when nothing can protect you and you stagger to your car and you pick up the bags you left by the door and your hands stop trembling as you put everything in the back seat and when you turn the ignition and they're still not trembling when you pull into your garage and you leave your bags in the car but that's ok you'll get to them later and you ignore your mother as you climb the stairs and lock yourself in your room and you're still not trembling as you crawl under your comforter fully dressed and stare at the wall for hours.

.

.

erica reyes and rahim boyd ran away—and that, combined with the lacrosse win and stilinski getting beat up by the rival team and jackson's apparent death and resurrection, means that your two-day stroll in the woods is last month's news.

it should make you feel better, make you breathe a little easier, but you've still got his shadow behind you. his red eyes and blood-soaked mouth and long terrible claws (the better to touch you with, my dear) are still watching, still waiting.

he is always there. always lingering.

roaming and hungry.

you walk the halls of beacon hills high and feel like a ghost. your smile is a ghost's smile.

nobody notices.

nobody notices and you wonder why that upsets you because _isn't that what you wanted lydia? isn't that what you were working for? don't you want them to look at you and see that nothing's wrong? don't you want to be normal? don't you, lydia?!_ but you feel like a ghost and can't help but think that nobody notices that anything's wrong because nobody cares enough to notice. nobody cares enough to look beyond your role—the triumphant queen's return—nobody cares enough to look beyond the surface of things because your surface is perfect it's just everything else that's fucked up.

but what else did you expect?

.

.

allison and scott are over and done with—for good this time. for now, anyway.

you hear it from someone in your table who mentions it in a roundabout way and you try not to pay attention to how jackson's eyes flit over to allison and how his eyes linger before he looks at you and then away.

you feel a foot nudge you from under the table and across from you danny jerks his chin at jackson and rolls his eyes dramatically. you smother a laugh and poke his shin with the tip of your high heel. he grins. you smile back.

.

.

you aren't jealous of allison so much that you miss her. miss what you used to have.

you were friends once, weren't you? and maybe it wasn't any of that life-long bosom buddies crap, but you had your moments and you miss that moments, that easy closeness.

allison was never interested in being a part of high school hierarchy; never had that gleam in her eye where she was just waiting for you to mess up—slip up—but she looked the part of a popular girl. easy on the eyes and such a pretty little thing and you cleaved to her the moment she stepped into the hallway—better safe than sorry, better keep her close instead of out there, better keep her where i can see her where i can watch her where i can asses her threat value—and you never looked back.

couldn't look back now that you think about it and you don't blame her for getting you mixed up in all of this bullshit, but you blame her for knowing and then lying. for keeping you in the dark and leaving you to the ghosts. to the shadows.

she abandoned you when you needed her the most and you're not sure if you can forgive her for that.

but you still miss her.

.

.

scott misses her too.

you can see it in the way his eyes trail after her in class or in hallways. you want to tell him to stop. that pining doesn't make it better. that being a begging puppy dog isn't worth it in the end because allison said no allison ended it—

—it's obvious who ended it because just looking at him tell you all you need to know, that he'd take her back in half a heartbeat as soon as she gave him the word—

but you remember his sharp teeth and his gold eyes and your vision narrows down to a long, dark tunnel and before you know it you're locked in a bathroom stall, hyperventalating and swallowing back sobs.

you miss yourself, too.

.

.

"what is it going to take for you to open up to me."

it's a command phrased as a question and you feel your back stiffen in preparation for battle. every session is another fight and you refuse to give up ground.

you lift your chin in defiance, say, "i don't understand what you're talking about." you smile snidely. "i've been _perfectly _candid with you."

"is that so." she doesn't believe you, of course. you can see it in the quiet amusement in her face, though she does her best to smother it with professional blankness. no expression. no emotion. she won't budge either.

"yes. exactly." you widen your eyes faux-innocently. you don't look at ms. morrell directly—something about her clear, direct stare unnerves you, unsettles something in your core.

"if nothing is wrong… then what are you doing here?"

"i already told you. my parents." you grit your teeth and check the your cell phone for the fifth time that hour. the wall clock is perfectly visible from your seat, but there's something about pulling out your cell phone that seems that much more rude. "oh, look at the time."

you rise up to your full (short) height, posture perfect. you're a model on the runway. you're a queen ascending her throne.

_everyone's waiting for you to slip up and fall. don't give it to them. make them look at you. make them eat it_.

"i think we're done here." your smile is as sharp as a blade. you're good with expressions-when you can control them. every day is a battle to regain it. ms. morrell is on a mission to blast it to pieces. you won't let her. you refuse to.

you can't fall. not now. not yet. not ever.

you wave psuedo cheerfully before striding to the hallway. your heels click on the linoleom—a cheap office for a worthless position—before her voice stops you at the door.

"this isn't over, lydia."

you don't look back.

"we have to talk about this eventually."

you refuse to look back.

"you can't runaway from it forever."

_no, but i can try_.

"whatever it is that you think you have to run from, whatever it is that you think is chasing you..."

—bright lights from the shadows comes a man—and from the shadows—

"... i want you to know that you cannot run forever. sooner or later, you will reach a point, lydia, you will reach a point where there's nowhere else to run to."

—he has red eyes and teeth and he bites into you—bites into your flank and through the pain you'll feel him lap up the blood with his tongue as it gushes out and you try to crawl away but it hurts-but it hurts too much and he's too strong and you can't you just can't—the crowd goes wild and you have grass in your mouth and you can feel him-you can feel him and you can't get him off and the lights are bright and the crowd goes wild—

"you have a choice, lydia. you can either deal with it now—here, with me—or you can wait until you're alone and cornered."

you refuse to lean against the doorframe. refuse to look weak. but somehow you manage to bite out, "can i go now?" in a voice that sounds almost as haughty as it should.

"yes, lydia. you are free to go."

your feet can't take you away fast enough.

.

.

there's something like a tailgate party near the parking lot, and you'd prefer not to deal with what passes for school spirit outside of lacrosse season. unfortunately for you, they're blocking the path to your bug. no escaping them.

the thought of having to wade through the crowd is enough to make you sick to your stomach.

you turn tail and tell yourself it's a tactical retreat.

.

.

tell yourself you had somewhere else to be anyway.

libraries aren't a haven for you.

there are other girls, you hear, who find comfort in the smell of dusty, unread books. but you are not that girl. literature doesn't make your heart swell or your soul sing. fiction bores you.

but the library is big enough to disappear in, and empty enough to feel alone with company, and you find yourself drifting in the non-fiction section, fingers caressing the spines of books that contain the vastness of the universe in six hundred pages or less.

you open up a book published in '03 and can't help the chuckle that escapes your lips when you turn to the page that describes pluto as a planet. you trace its (glossy) pock-marked surface before returning it to the shelf.

this is why you prefer the internet, with its vast—almost limitless—sources of information. you like being on the up and up, like knowing what happens when it happens.

the thought of having to wait _x_ amount of days or weeks for something to be published is distasteful at best, legitimately upsetting at worst.

—_what does it look like to you?_ she says and all you see are red eyes and all you remember are red eyes and you feel cold—_so cold—_to your core and allison says _lydialydialydia_ over and over again, a chant to bring you back to your body and _fuck,_ you miss her so much sometimes it hurts to breathe

you're not sure who you're thinking of right now. not sure if it even matters.

you feel this gaping hole in the middle where your insides should be. you wish you knew how to make it stop.

.

.

you turn around and almost bump into scott. he smiles softly and not-quite touches you on the side of your arm—

you both decide to ignore how you flinch away from his outstretched hand.

—it pleases you to believe that thoughts of allison have summoned him to you. that his lovelorn heart developed these skills on lonely night, seeking out those who knew her so that he might touch her through someone else.

he steps back and you step forward, in sync

—there's a predatory memory in your muscles that you don't have the words to describe—

and scott raises his eyebrows in surprise. "um, hey," he says. his voice soft and hushed. perfect library etiquette.

you don't say a word in reply, just look at him. searching for answers—to what? who knows)—your hand on his chest. you press closer 'til you feel him bump his back against a bookshelf, feel his warm breath against your skin, see his adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly.

he looks nervous. you _like_ nervous.

this time _you're_ the one pushing people into corners.

"lydia, are you o—?"

you kiss him. press your lips against his and it's soft and slow and fast and clumsy and he doesn't know where to put his hands, so you grab them and move them to your waist and he holds you like he expects you to run away at any moment, so you grab him by his stupid henley shirt like he's going to disappear into the ether if you don't hold on tight. like he's going to leave you. his heart thuds wildly against your fist and you move up to cup his face and kiss him harder, feel his pulse against your palm and he sighs into your mouth and you tug at his hair as his tongue slips inside your mouth—you wonder, idly, if this means you can taste allison on him—and wondering that is enough to make you cry.

make you a wet, soppy mess.

and you hate yourself. what you've become. what you've been reduced to.

the more you try to stop yourself from crying means the more you cry until you're sobbing into his mouth and he rubs your back and you're clinging to him desperately. like a child clings to their parent and break away from him.

you break away and wipe your mouth and look at him the way you would at a mirror and he flinches from your gaze and you wipe you tear-streaked cheeks roughly and walk away and you don't look back.

.

.

* * *

.

.

**ahn~** again, don't expect any speedy updates but i CAN promise you that i won't abandon this. :)


	2. how to greet an empty body

**warning:**  
this work openly explores lydia's ptsd after peter's attack and forced piggy back ride (haunting, threatening, manipulation, coercion, etc.), as well as peter just being a general creep and invading lydia's personal space both in the past and the current time-line of the fic.

please keep in mind that in order to keep it all in character, the language used to describe peter and lydia's interactions with him is reminiscent to sexual violence.

**please mind the warning.** it was emotionally exhausting for me to write, and potentially triggering for other individuals.

Updated on 1/1/13 on AO3 and the formatting messed up on transfer.

title from warsan shire. full chapter title is: _no one can teach you how to greet an empty body_

* * *

.

there are mornings you wake and you feel so hollow that all you want to do is curl into yourself, pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around your body and try not to shake because you are so lonely and you feel so cold that it's like ice in your veins where there should be blood and—

_. _

_ oh, but you're not cold at all, are you, lydia?_ and he has his hands on your body. his hands in your body.  
lips against your ear as he whispers _you're so beautiful, so passionate. such a great, big heart. _and you seek  
out the numbness inside you

and it won't make you stronger but maybe you wouldn't have to feel so much, wouldn't have to—

.

you keep forgetting if you want to cry or if you just want to fall back to sleep, so you stare at the wall and do nothing instead.

.

.

you get up because you have to. because there are no other choices for people like you but to drag your body out of bed. to get dressed, get up, get out.

your limbs feel like lead and it hurts to move (more like you don't want to move, wish you didn't have to, crave the relative safety of your bed, of your comforters), but you keep going anyway. what else can you do, but drag your tight little ass to school and pretend to be as confident as you look?

"good morning, sweetie." you flinch at your mother's voice. you didn't expect her to be up. didn't expect her to be in the kitchen.

weren't prepared for interacting with someone so goddamn early and so it takes you a moment to gather the fractured pieces of your composure before you respond with a curt, "morning."

her expression falls and you feel the twinge of guilt like it's something outside of you.

whatever it is she wants to tell you is lost. you don't look over your shoulder when you leave her behind.

it's not like you'd know what to say if you did.

.

.

you're exhausted and not a little delirious when you walk into school.

like it isn't enough that they treat you like a ghost, now you feel like a zombie as well. your lips twitch, like you want to laugh at the bad joke, but your muscles forgot how to go through the motions and so the feeling is gone before you can taste it.

everything's going through a filter, murky and distant, and while this is new for you, you don't mistake it for "better". new isn't better, new is just different and different doesn't mean _anything_.

especially not better. you're starting to realize that you're never getting better. that you're never getting anywhere, that no matter what you do or where you go, a part of you is still on that field with blood on your dress and pressed beneath the monster at the end of the book.

and that part of you will never leave.

you grit your teeth and make a sharp left, bumping into something—someone—warm and hard and firm. his scent is familiar, tickles your nose like the soft cotton of his shirt caresses your cheek, and by the time you've recovered enough to react, danny's arms reach out to steady you even as he's stepping back to give you space.

there are reasons why danny is jackson's best friend, but a part of you still wonders why jackson is danny's. wonders what he sees in your ex that keeps him around, if he sees something you'd overlooked in the past or if he thought jackson was cute enough to forgive certain transgressions before the little jerk-off burrowed under his skin.

you understand the latter; after all, the same had happened to you last year.

"hey there, sorry about that." he looks at you in a way you can't describe, you just know it gives you goosebumps all over.

_what do you want from me_, you think and don't say. maybe it's an innocent look. maybe he doesn't mean anything by it. but you're not used to people looking at you tenderly unless they want to crack you open and take a peek at your insides.

you want to run away. you want to run into his arms. _you want you want you want you want_—and he smiles a dimpled smile that you've convinced yourself looks sincere even though you've forgotten what that looks like, exactly, and you smile back, small and worn and tired like your heart.

"hi," you say, and it sounds more like a sigh than a word.

danny frowns. says, "you look exhausted. did you get enough sleep?"

something in you clicks. you're not sure what, or what that means. just that he wasn't supposed to notice. nobody is supposed to notice. no one should be able to see beneath your shiny veneer. you tuck the knowledge away for later use—if there's a chink in your armor, you want to find it, fix it, make it impossible to see where there were once cracks.

you shrug in response. you're not about to confess to nightmares, to looking over your shoulder when you're alone, to jumping at empty shadows because you still remember something lurking in them. know in your bones that he's still out there, watching you.

.

it's a weakness. it's pathetic. no one needs to know but you.

.

"i had a paper to write." which is true, except you didn't do it. didn't remember it was due until you lied just now, and you'll have to write it during lunch instead of trying not to look at allison, who sits with the quiet girls who read fantasy novels. "lost track of time."

he nods in understanding. if there's one thing he understands, it's looming deadlines, papers pushed off to the last possible second. it's not his usual style, you know, and it isn't yours either, but sometimes...

"anyways, i have to go."

but as you brush past him, he says your name. says, "lydia, we're friends, right?" you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. you've somehow managed to meet his eyes, but other than that you don't move, don't speak, don't even think.

he continues. "i know we're only close because of jackson, but just because—even though—that doesn't mean—" danny drags a hand through his short hair in soundless frustration. he isn't often at a loss for words, but then you've never really heard him talk. he's a quiet guy, saying only what he needs to and nothing more. sometimes his silence is louder. "that doesn't mean we can't still be friends. i'm here for you, if you want me to be. if you need me to be. all you have to do is say the word."

you nod numbly because you don't trust that words can come out. he smiles softly and looks at you, still with that look that makes your adrenaline spike. your lungs are empty and tight. you can't breathe. you can't breathe and the bell rings, sets you both free.

danny disappears into the crowd. you're anchored.

you watch as everything passes you by.

.

.

you don't want to go to econ. wish you could skip it, pretend it was something _other_ and unnecessary; wish you never had to step foot in there again. it has nothing to do with the class itself—while mr. finstock is an incompetent teacher at best and sabotages his students at worst, high school economics isn't actually _hard—_but you still remember your breakdown in the middle of class a few weeks ago, how you screamed out in terror, your cheeks stained with tears. Eyes red, mascara streaming down your face... you'd crushed the piece of chalk in your hand like so much garbage, and the blackboard behind you carried the evidence of your fractured psyche.

_someonehelpmesomeonehelpmeso meonehelpme_

_._

you'd never felt as vulnerable—as exposed—as you did in that moment.

.

even now you can hear the laughter, how it trails after you, follows you home until you make yourself sick in the bathroom and you dry heave into the toilet as if you could actually throw your pain up instead of having its heavy weight settle in the pit your stomach.

he's still inside you, that parasitic rot, that smell of death and decay and worms, hands black and grey-brown from soot and earth. but the world keeps turning, keeps spinning, and nobody is waiting for you to get your shit together. nobody is waiting for you to get ready—they expect it to happen tomorrow, yesterday, sometime now in this moment.

asking for help is an admission of failure and you refuse to fail—_you cannot fail_. not now, not ever. not again.

so you square your shoulders, raise your chin up high, keep going.

.

.

* * *

**ahn~**

shorter than i would have liked, but this is where it wanted to end. i've got almost 1k of chapter three written out, just need to smooth out what would have been the rest of ch2 and make it into something worthwhile.


End file.
